


At the End of the Day

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22655428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: Even after all their time together, there's a few important things about Jaskier that Geralt has overlooked.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, mentioned Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengeberg, mentioned Jaskier | Dandelion/Chireadan
Comments: 41
Kudos: 765





	At the End of the Day

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, as a spring rainstorm batters the roof of the tavern, “I'd like you to meet Ronan.” 

Geralt looks up from his watery ale and meat of questionable origin. The man, Ronan apparently, could best be described as plain. Dark brown hair, beige-coloured tunic, brown trousers, brown boots. He's only remarkable in that Jaskier is introducing him to Geralt. 

Jaskier talks _about_ people all the time. Geralt knows more than he ever wanted to about the scandalous affairs, the political leanings, the neighbourly disputes and the family feuds of men and women he's never met and has less than no interest in. And Jaskier likes people. Geralt sees him all the time with them. Dancing. Flirting. Arguing, usually about Geralt, about who he is and what he's like and where he should be permitted, as if Geralt is a dangerous pet. But he doesn't usually bring them to meet him. 

“Hm,” Geralt says, by way of greeting. Ronan smells of fear. That's normal. Jaskier is the only one who never did, not even at the beginning. 

“I thought Ronan might come with us,” Jaskier goes on. “When we hit the road.” 

“Why?” Geralt asks. He and Jaskier have just met up again after close to three weeks apart. In the past, that would have been nothing, but Geralt finds himself uncommonly pleased to see the bard again so soon, and eager to adventure with him again. His travel plans did not include anybody else. They rarely do. 

“He's an up-and-coming young performer,” Jaskier says. As if to prove it, he points to the lute around Ronan's neck. “I thought it would be a great opportunity for him. Who knows, he might even write his own White Wolf hit.” 

Geralt frowns. Nobody writes about him except Jaskier. Jaskier has always made that very clear. 

“No.” The last thing Geralt needs is someone else to worry about.

An expression passes over Jaskier's face. Geralt can't interpret it. Even after all these years, Jaskier sometimes exhibits emotions that are incomprehensible to Geralt. It seems to be happening more and more frequently of late. 

“Right. Well, it was just a suggestion.” The two of them, Jaskier and Ronan, walk off together. They sit in a corner for the rest of the night, heads bent over their lutes. Geralt orders another ale, then another, and when Jaskier doesn't show any signs of being ready to leave, goes up to their shared room alone. 

Geralt and Jaskier spend the summer together. Geralt gets several lucrative contracts and money is good, but even so, he likes to sleep out under the stars when the weather is fine. Jaskier is there of course, lying on the other side of the fire as always. When they wake up in the mornings, he seems to groan more than usual, cracking his shoulders and rubbing his lower back. Geralt doesn't mention it. 

They pay a visit to Yennefer and Ciri. Now that she's a young woman, Ciri needs Yennefer's guidance more than Geralt's. She still runs to Geralt when he arrives, throwing her arms around him like she did as a little girl. Yennefer's embrace is cooler, as always, less effusive, but Geralt can tell she's pleased to see them.

Yennefer and Jaskier snipe at one another like they always do. Geralt doesn't like it, particularly, but it's their way. One morning, when Geralt emerges from Yennefer's room in the small castle they are renting, for what he suspects is far below market value, he finds Jaskier lounging in the kitchen, idly strumming his lute while servants bustle around him. 

“Good morning,” Jaskier says. Geralt grunts a reply. “There's breakfast in the oven, if you want some. These lovely people,” he waves a hand, “make the most wonderful waffles. Ciri and I enjoyed them immensely.” 

“Where is she now? Ciri?” 

“Teaching the local children how to lay snares for rabbits. I don't know who that girl could possibly belong to. It's a mystery to me.” Jaskier strums a final chord and lays the lute aside, instead picking up the cup in front of him. Coffee, it smells like. Black. “I fucked Chireadan, you know.” 

“What?” Geralt glances around. One of the kitchen maids smirks a little, but the others seem far too occupied with their tasks to pay Jaskier any mind.

“Chireadan. We did it. The old planting the parsnip. Batter-dipping the sausage. Making the beast with two backs.” 

“I see.” Geralt doesn't. Not why Jaskier is telling him this, anyway. “Recently?” He hasn't mentioned seeing Chireadan again. 

Jaskier laughs. “No. After that thing with the Djinn. He was in love with Yennefer. It hit him hard to see the two of you doing the deed through the window, so I offered my services. As a friend.” 

“Huh.” Geralt already knew Jaskier and Chireadan had seen them at it that first time. He isn't ashamed. He's never ashamed of fucking Yennefer, no matter what else might sometimes embarrass him about his relationship with her. “You're a good friend.” 

“Yes,” Jaskier agrees. “I really am.” He stands up. For a moment, Geralt thinks Jaskier's going to walk away, but he doesn't. Instead, he says, “Sit down. I'll get you some breakfast, you ungrateful wretch. We don't need to be bothering the staff any more than we already are.” 

Geralt doesn't think he's ungrateful. Still, he makes sure to thank Jaskier when he sets the waffles down in front of him. They are very good. 

Summer fades eventually into fall, and Geralt starts thinking about returning to Kaer Morhen. The thought crosses his mind that he could bring Jaskier with him, although he's never done so before. Jaskier might like it. Kaer Morhen is not luxurious by any means, but it's probably no worse than whatever Jaskier usually does during the winter. The other Witchers would tease both of them, and might make lewd remarks about Jaskier, but they wouldn't harm him. Jaskier can more than hold his own with any verbal sparring. 

Although Geralt's not sure he likes that idea, after all. As he brushes his latest Roach, he imagines Jaskier flirting with the other Witchers the way he flirts with every human he meets. It's not a pleasant thought, but Jaskier himself distracts Geralt from it, his voice calling, “Geralt? Are you in here?” From the stable doors.

Before he can answer, Jaskier is at Geralt's side. He is not alone. 

“This is Dahlia,” Jaskier says. Dahlia is a young woman, with blonde ringlets and rosy cheeks. She reminds Geralt of Ciri, a little. “She's a bard. Trying to be, anyway, isn't that right, Dahlia?” Jaskier looks at her. “It's still a terribly tough business for a woman. I thought we might be able to give her a leg up if she travelled with us for a bit. I could, you know, give her some instruction, and there's never any shortage of material travelling with you.” 

It's the second time Jaskier has tried this. Geralt doesn't understand it any more than he did the first. “I'm going to Kaer Morhen,” he replies. “Very soon.”

“Really?” Jaskier blinks. “Isn't it a bit early? I thought you usually waited for the first snow.” 

Geralt often waits longer than that, if he's with Jaskier and they've managed to secure indoor lodgings. He shrugs, which Jaskier has to take as an answer. He's not getting another one. 

“Ah, well. Perhaps I can find another way to be of professional assistance, Dahlia, dear.” Jaskier smiles at her. Geralt doesn't know when Jaskier became so interested in helping other bards—he spent years complaining about Valdo Marx and celebrated openly when the man was killed in a duel—but he doesn't ask. He doesn't care. “Have a good winter, Geralt.” 

“Hm.” That doesn't seem sufficient. “Yes,” Geralt adds. “See you in the spring.” 

He does, eventually. Usually, Geralt manages to run into Jaskier within a couple of weeks of leaving Kaer Morhen. A month, at worst. This year, Jaskier is nowhere. 

Not that Geralt is searching for him. That's not how it works. He goes about his business, travelling from town to town, taking contracts and keeping an ear open for any news of a bard passing through the area. But month after month passes. In late spring, he heads to the coast, a region he rarely visits. It's there, in a tavern atop a seaside bluff, he finally finds Jaskier, leading a crowd in a merry rendition of “The Fishmonger's Daughter.” His eyes, already alight like they always are when he's performing for a good crowd, shine brighter when they land on Geralt. Geralt can't help but smile a little himself. 

“Where have you been?” He asks, when Jaskier has played his last encore of the night, and come to sit by him. He brings two frothy mugs of ale with him, replacing the empty one in front of Geralt. 

“I've been here.” 

“At this place?” There's nothing special about this tavern. Nothing that could keep Jaskier's feet planted. _Unless_ , Geralt thinks, _it's not something, but some_ one. The thought makes him uncomfortable, so he pushes it aside.

“And a few others in the area. I've been...” Jaskier licks his lips. “Staying close to home.”

“Home?” 

“I bought a cottage over the winter. Just a small one. I got a good price for it, probably because the former tenants were a nest of rats. I say former, there are still a few who haven't been notified of their change of address.”

“Why?” Jaskier isn't the kind of man to settle down. Geralt's known him long enough to know that. He's like Geralt himself: a nomad, a wanderer. “Why would you do that?” 

Jaskier sighs. “Geralt,” he says, like that is a sentence in itself, before continuing. “I'm over fifty years old. And I know I don't look a day past thirty, and I know I have the vitality and, dare I say it, sexual charisma of a much younger man, but I can't...” He hesitates. “I can't anymore. I'm sorry.” 

Geralt frowns, a fearsome expression that has never frightened Jaskier in the least. “And don't look like that,” Jaskier tuts. “I tried to find you another travelling companion, but you were your usual charming self, and...”

“I don't want another travelling companion. I want you.” It sounds peevish, but how can Jaskier abandon him like this, after all they've done together? After all they've been to one another? 

Jaskier's gaze hardens. “You don't, though.”

“What?”

“Let's be honest. You don't want me. You never did.” 

“That's not true.” Life's not easier with Jaskier around, that's for damn sure. But Geralt enjoys it just the same.

“I don't mind, Geralt. I made my peace with it a long time ago. Unrequited love, the great tragedy of my life. I have gotten a lot of good songs out of it, so it's not a total loss.” 

Witchers aren't made to be Oxenfurt scholars, but Geralt has never thought of himself as stupid. Now, he feels monumentally so. He frowns. “You don't...You mean to say...”

Jaskier's eyes widen. He laughs, but it doesn't sound like usual. It doesn't sound happy. “Oh, no. No, no, no. You do not get to do that to me, Geralt. You don't get to tell me, after thirty years, that you had no idea how I feel about you.” 

Geralt knew Jaskier lusts after him. That's not uncommon. Nearly everyone Geralt meets fears him, hates him, wants him, or some combination of the three. And Jaskier could, and has, lusted after everything up to and including a finely tailored pair of pants and a tasty bowl of stew. It doesn't mean anything. Jaskier never said anything, so Geralt didn't, either. Eventually, it became background noise, easy to ignore. 

Because he'd thought lust was all it was. Why would someone like Jaskier ever feel more for someone like Geralt? Jaskier could do so much better. He has, on many occasions. 

“I don't...” Geralt doesn't know what he wants to say. Doesn't know where to start. 

“I know. You don't. And I can't. So, I guess this is good-bye.” Jaskier drinks the rest of his ale in one gulp. There was quite a lot left. He's a little unsteady on his feet when he puts the tankard back on the table and stands. “Take care of yourself. Give Ciri my love. And Yennefer, too, I guess. Maybe not love. Well wishes? Let's say regards.” 

“Don't...” Don't go, is what Geralt wants to say. He doesn't.

“Don't worry,” Jaskier fills in for him. “I'll be fine.” He pats Geralt on the shoulder, like the two of them are vague acquaintances, and leaves. Gerald doesn't know how to stop him. 

He waits in the village for a couple of days, in case Jaskier returns. He doesn't. He asks around, and learns that this home of his is about an hour's ride west. Geralt finds it easily: a cottage, larger and in better condition than Geralt expected, with a sloping roof and a stone chimney. A plume of smoke rises into the air, indicating Jaskier is probably in. Geralt sits atop Roach for a long time, looking, before taking up the reins and turning the horse away. 

***

When he arrives at Yennefer and Ciri's, Geralt finds Yennefer in her chambers, casting spells at a purple flower in a pot.

“Don't tell Ciri,” are the first words out of Yennefer's mouth. “She bet me I couldn't keep it alive without magic.” 

“And you can't.” 

“Of course I fucking can't. What am I, a gardener?” She looks behind him. “Speaking of which, where's your buttercup?” Geralt frowns. That's answer enough to have Yennefer raising her eyebrows. “Oh, dear. Trouble in paradise? After all this time?” 

“I didn't...” There are a lot of things Geralt didn't, apparently. “I didn't notice him aging.” The signs were there, now Geralt looks back. Jaskier's hair had slowly greyed, his pace slowed as they walked. He seemed more and more content to go back to their room after a performance, rather than stay in the tavern for hours, drinking and flirting with his admiring fans. Geralt hadn't thought anything of it. He certainly hadn't thought Jaskier was reaching the point where he wanted to stop travelling. 

“Ah. Well, that's what happens when you love a human, I'm afraid.” There's an unexpected catch to Yennefer's voice. Geralt thinks, not for the first time, that he really doesn't know anything about her. 

“I didn't notice he loved me,” Geralt admits. 

Yennefer's expression turns to one of derision. “I didn't think you were that stupid.” 

“Not stupid enough to think Ciri will believe you did this,” he indicates the blooming flower, “on your own.” She scowls at him. Geralt can feel it building: that spark between them, that electricity the two of them have. Brilliant, awe-inspiring, and dangerous when it arcs. “How can I fix it? With Jaskier?” 

“You can't make him immortal. It's a bad idea to try.”

“I don't want to.” That's not totally true, but he does know better. “I don't want to leave him, though.” Not yet. Not until the choice is taken from him. 

“I'm not your fucking advisor, Geralt.” Yennefer sighs. “Talk to him.” That's easier said than done. “Be honest. And if you tell Ciri about the flower, I'll curse you with the limpest dick on the continent, and this will all be moot.” 

It's advice. Geralt's not sure it's _good_ advice, but it's not like there's anyone else he can ask. 

He spends the rest of the day there. Ciri is thrilled to see him, as always, and they spend a bit of time working on her swordsmanship. She's kept up her skills. Geralt is pleased to notice that, even though he's no longer around to work with her every day. When they sit down for a break, collapsing onto the grass, Ciri says, “Where's Jaskier? Did you get in a fight?”

“It's complicated.” 

Her eyes widen. For a moment, she looks like the little girl she was when Geralt first met her, and not like the sophisticated woman she has become. “Did you break up?” 

“Ciri...” 

“My grandmother took lovers, when she felt like it. It was an arrangement between her and Eist. They thought I didn't know about it,” she adds. “I still wish I didn't. But,” she reaches over to squeeze his hand. “Eist was the one who held her heart, always. Like Jaskier holds yours. Whatever the problem is, you'll sort things out.” After all she's been through, that she can still be so pure and good amazes Geralt. 

Ciri jumps up again. “Come on, I want to get some more practice in before we lose the light.” She takes up her sword, even though Geralt feels like they just sat down, and plants her feet the way he showed her when she was a child. 

That night, when Geralt goes to Yennefer's rooms, he finds the door locked. He sleeps in the stables with Roach, even though it unnerves the stable boys to have him there, and leaves before breakfast the next morning. 

***

“Do Witchers feel fear?” Geralt remembers Jaskier asking him the question years ago. They were in their room above a tavern, and Jaskier was sitting astride Geralt's back, massaging his sore muscles with clever, dexterous hands. Geralt was feeling so calm, so relaxed, it took him a moment to answer. 

“We don't let it impede us.” That was the difference, as far as Geralt understood it, between Witchers and humans. The feeling existed, but Geralt could easily sublimate it. It never affected his performance; it never slowed him down. 

“Hm,” Jaskier replied. “Lucky you.” He shifted suddenly, moving off Geralt's body to the mattress beside him. For a moment, Geralt feared he was going to get up and go, but he didn't. His hands returned, freshly oiled, and skimmed deftly over Geralt's scarred skin. 

Now, Geralt hears Jaskier before he sees him. Coming up to the house, Geralt dismounts, tying Roach to Jaskier's fencepost, and follows the dulcet tones of singing interspersed with swearing around the back. 

“'There was a fisherman who cast his net...' Gods above! 'The prettiest mermaid he ever did get...' Oh, are you fucking joking?” 

Geralt stops. Jaskier is chopping wood, or attempting to. While Geralt watches, he sets a wobbling log on its end on the chopping block and brings his axe up over his head. Before Geralt can intervene, the log topples and falls onto Jaskier's foot, and Geralt is treated to a renewed round of cursing as the axe swings impotently into the block. 

“You require help.” Geralt means for it to be a question, but it doesn't sound like one. Jaskier looks over his shoulder. 

“Would you believe it, all those campfires I made when we were on the road, and I can't chop fucking logs to save my life.” 

“It's not as simple as it appears.” 

“For me, maybe. You can't tell me you weren't felling trees by the time you could walk.”

“I was at least six years old before I could do that.” 

Jaskier's eyebrows go up. He grins, which sends a wave of warmth through Geralt. There's no sense in denying that. “Oh ho! A joke! Maybe we should have split up years ago. Clearly, travelling with a renowned wit such as I was holding back your natural comedic abilities.”

“We haven't split up.” 

Jaskier's smile doesn't disappear, but it dims a little. He sighs, heartfelt but less dramatic than it might have been, resting one hand on his hip. “Do you want to come inside?” 

For all his talk of rats, Jaskier's cottage is beautiful. Geralt has never had a sense of style—as Jaskier himself never tires of telling him—but even he can see the richness in the flocked wallpaper, the decadence in the soft stuffed armchairs in front of the hearth. One of the two carved doors is ajar, and through it Geralt can glimpse the flagstone floor of a kitchen. The other door is shut. Geralt assumes that leads to the bedroom. 

The most surprising element are the paintings: a dozen of different sizes, hanging on all four walls of the cottage's main room. Many of the pictures are landscapes—Geralt recognizes the ruined castle keep at Cintra and the Skellige coastline—but several are portraits. Some of the subjects, Geralt doesn't recognize. Others are obvious. Ciri, Triss, a woman who so resembles Jaskier, she must be a relative, maybe his mother. And Geralt himself, several times over. 

“Where did you get all these?” Geralt asks.

“I painted them.”

“I didn't know you did that.” 

“It's hardly the sort of thing I could whip out on the road, is it? 'Excuse me, vile cockatrice, would you mind posing just like that while I set up my easel'?” 

“You never mentioned it.” 

“Would you have cared?” 

_Yes._ But Geralt knows that answer would be disingenuous. He never gave Jaskier any indication that he wanted to hear about his hobbies. He was rude enough about the man's actual career. 

“You're good,” Geralt says, wishing he could think of a better word than that.

“Thanks. Do you want a drink?” 

They talk for a while about Ciri, and about Jaskier's new job on the seaside tavern circuit. “We get a lot of old people in,” Jaskier says. “Tourists. They all want to hear 'Toss a Coin to Your Witcher.'” 

“It's a good song.” After all this time, Geralt can admit that. 

“I can't hit the high notes like I used to.” 

Geralt had almost succeeded in forgetting why he was here. Forgetting, again, that Jaskier was getting older. He shifts on the armchair. _Be honest_ , Yennefer said. “I'm sorry.”

Jaskier swirls the wine in his glass. It's sweeter than Geralt likes it, but they're in Jaskier's house. He's made no complaint. “You don't have to apologize.” 

“I should have noticed your difficulties.” Geralt should have noticed a few things. “Made allowances for them.”

“I'm not some decrepit cripple, Geralt. I can't walk all day and sleep on the ground every night. I held on as long as I could.”

“I know.”

“I tried to make sure you'd be taken care of afterwards.” 

“I know.”

“I tried to be a good friend.”

“I know.” And now Geralt must do the same. He grits his teeth, ignores the fear as always, and jumps. “I thought you wanted to fuck me.”

“I do!”

Do, Geralt remarks. Not did. It gives him the push to keep going. “ _Just_ fuck me. And then, once you...once you got bored of it, you'd go away.” Like everyone did, if Geralt gave them the chance. He'd stopped giving chances years and years ago. Yennefer is the exception, but only because Geralt knows she's never been his, not for a second.

“I've been in love with you my entire adult life.” Jaskier says it easily, like it's nothing at all. “Did you really not know that?” He doesn't pause for an answer. “Everyone else did. Ciri, Yennefer, Chireadean. The Countess de Stael and most of the other people I slept with and anybody who ever heard me sing 'Her Sweet Kiss' while you were in the room. Even fucking Stregobor was keen to tell me how pathetic I was for panting after the Butcher of Blaviken, until you burst in and ran him through.” One more reason for Geralt to be pleased that day worked out as it did. “I thought you weren't interested. It never crossed my mind you had no idea.” 

Geralt gets up, crossing the distance between their chairs. Jaskier sits, his lovely eyes wide with shock, while Geralt kneels in front of him.

Geralt is not a man of many words. He never has been, and he's exhausted his current supply. There's so much more he wants to say. So many more apologies he needs to make, for his blindness and for not knowing how much he needed Jaskier until Jaskier left. Instead, all he can say is, “Is it too late?” He will accept the answer with good grace. He has no choice. 

Still, he rests a hopeful hand on Jaskier's thigh. A blush comes to Jaskier's face. _He really hasn't changed that much_ , Geralt thinks. He can almost forgive himself for forgetting Jaskier is mortal, given his persistent youthful appearance. “Too, too, too late? No, it's not too...”

Geralt takes that as all the answer he needs. They have a great deal of lost time to make up, after all. He cuts Jaskier off with a kiss, which Jaskier returns immediately. Dimly, Geralt hears the sound of a wineglass hitting the floor as both Jaskier's hands wind into Geralt's hair, and his tongue slides into Geralt's mouth like it's always belonged there. 

Jaskier's bed has curtains. Heavy, velvet curtains, the dark purple of royalty, with gold tassels. There's a matching bedspread as well, finely embroidered with gold and purple. _He should have had this all along_ , Geralt thinks. Geralt's the one who kept him in bedrolls and in tents and on the soggy straw mattresses of third- and fourth-rate inns. _It was his choice to follow_ , Geralt counters himself, testily. Then Jaskier kisses him, again, and all thoughts of arguing with himself disappear. 

Slowly, carefully, Geralt lets his hand wander around to the back of Jaskier's trousers, where they tie shut at the waist. He hesitates, his fingers on the laces. Jaskier murmurs encouragement into his mouth, and Geralt gently unfastens the knot. 

Jaskier's arse is amazing. That, Geralt has noticed before, but catching unintended glimpses of it while bathing or changing is very different from having it in his hands. It fits perfectly. Jaskier seems to think so, too. He moans, and Geralt needs very much to be wearing fewer clothes. 

He pulls back a little to work on his own trousers. Rather than divesting himself of his tunic, Jaskier stands and watches.

“Are you all right?” Geralt stops. 

“All right? I've wanted this for thirty years, Geralt. Let me savour it a little.” He pauses for perhaps five seconds. “Okay, that's long enough. Come here and fuck me already.” 

It's an order with which Geralt is all too happy, and all too willing, to comply. 

From time to time—usually in the depths of night, with Jaskier snoring across the fire or across the room or sometimes, if the weather was bad but coin was tight, even in the same narrow bed—Geralt has considered what it might be like to have sex with him. Geralt always suspected it would be good. 

He wasn't wrong. It is good, phenomenal, but it's also comfortable. When he sinks into Jaskier's body for the first time, it doesn't feel like it's the first time. It feels like they know each other already. 

With whores, Geralt has to be conscious he doesn't do anything that will get him banned from coming back, or end up costing him extra. With Yennefer, Geralt is always trying to impress, to convince her he's worth her time. With Jaskier, there's nothing to worry about. Nothing to prove. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, his hands gripping Geralt's shoulders, his legs gripping Geralt's waist. His head is tipped back, exposing his lovely throat for Geralt to kiss, over and over, the rhythm matching his thrusts. “I love you.” 

“Yes,” Geralt says, and comes. 

“I'm sorry,” Geralt repeats, later, as they lie wrapped in each other. “That it took so long to get here.” 

Jaskier looks at him, eyes shining in the moonlight that filters through the windows. With the exception of a brief break to eat, they've been in bed all afternoon and into the evening. Normally, Geralt would have grown bored long ago. At the moment, he feels as if he could stay here for weeks. 

“I'm not,” Jaskier replies. “Not really. You know how I am, darling. How I was when I was younger. I would have done something to ruin it.”

“Or I would have,” Geralt admits. 

Jaskier presses in closer. “I do have one regret, though. When I was young, I could have gone all night. Now...” He looks with chagrin at his own cock, resting softly against Geralt's side. 

“We have time.” How much, Geralt can't say. He does know he plans to make the most of whatever they're given, and be grateful for it. 

“I don't want to tie you down,” Jaskier says, then smiles. “I mean, in certain circumstances, that sounds quite appealing, but...”

“I will still travel,” Geralt replies. He has to. It's the Path. “But I will always come back to you. Come home.” 

He may not be good with words, but this is clearly the right thing to say. Jaskier makes a sound of joy and kisses Geralt everywhere he can reach: his shoulder, his neck, his cheek, and finally, his lips. “I'll keep the fire burning for you, my love.” 

“As long as I chop enough wood before I go.” 

“Another joke! You have been holding out on me. To think, all this time, we could have been working a as a double act! 'The Wondrous Bard Jaskier and his sidekick, the Comedic Witcher!' We could have sold out theatres across the continent. What a cruel loss to humanity...” Geralt once again cuts him off with a kiss, rolling over as he does so and pressing Jaskier back into his mattress.

 _Home_ , Geralt repeats to himself as Jaskier wraps his arms around him, holding him tightly. An unfamiliar concept, in his world, but none has ever sounded sweeter.


End file.
